Interludes
by ladybalin
Summary: Began as a series of missing scenes from 7x07 and then snowballed into a longer S8 fic. Focuses on Jon/Daenerys.
1. Interlude on a Boat

_**Jon and Daenerys on the boat just before 7x07 begins. Because who doesn't love boat scene? Began as a one-shot, but now may continue for a few loosely related scenes.**_

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Jon swore softly to himself as the swaying of the ship caused him to once again lose his grip on the buckles of his breastplate. Usually a rapid task, strapping himself into his armor was taking twice as long as usual thanks to a lingering exhaustion and chill that still hadn't quite left his bones. A knock on the door made him look up. Daenerys stood in the open doorway, dressed all in black, her hair glittering in contrast.

"My queen," Jon greeted her and then bowed his head and struggled to finish up dressing.

Daenerys slipped into the tiny cabin. "The captain informed me we'll be at King's Landing soon," Daenerys said.

"I know," Jon replied. "I'm nearly ready." He bit back another oath as the buckle once again failed to catch. He did not normally swear, but the prospect of the upcoming meetings had him on edge.

"Let me," Daenerys said.

She took over coaxing the leather strap through the buckle and tightening it. Surprised, Jon let her and tried not to breathe in the scent of her hair so tantalizingly close.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "The straps are still stiff from the water." He stifled a hiss as Daenerys cinched the breastplate tighter against his bruised ribs. "In truth, so am I."

Finished with the breastplate, Daenerys began expertly lacing on Jon's left wrist guard. "You've done this before," Jon noticed in order to distract himself from Daenerys's small hands traveling over his arm.

"I used to help my husband, Drogo, though he never wore anything like this," Daenerys said while reaching for the other wrist guard. "Daario's armor was more similar."

Jon saw a faint blush staining his queen's pale cheeks and decided he didn't want to know what this Daario was to her. "I'm not used to it. Someone helping me, I mean."

Daenerys glanced up at him. "Did they not have servants at Winterfell?"

"They did, but I'm a bastard," Jon explained, finding that at some point he'd stopped feeling the sting of that word so keenly. "Lady Catelyn always made it clear where my place was. And the men of the Wall take care of themselves mostly."

Daenerys finished the last buckle. "Ready for battle. You know this is a diplomatic mission," Daenerys commented as she stepped back.

"I never go anywhere without my armor. And I'm not much good at diplomacy," Jon responded, reaching for Longclaw.

Daenerys focused her eyes on the portion of John's chest where Ollie had stabbed him. "A dagger through the heart, Ser Davos said."

Jon realized, suddenly, that she'd seen all of his worst scars. "A time I didn't wear my armor," he said in answer to her unspoken question.

"How did you survive that?" Daenerys asked in wonder.

"I didn't," Jon said simply.

"Tell me," Daenerys commanded.

Jon sighed. There was no point in keeping it secret any longer. "I saved the Free Folk at Hardhome and brought them past the Wall. Some men of the Night's Watch took exception to that and killed me for it. Melisandre, a priestess of the Lord of Light, brought me back. I don't know how. "

Daenerys gazed into his eyes. "And so you live." Jon looked back at her in silence, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.

The mournful cry of a dragon broke their reverie. Daenerys turned towards the small window. "Rhaegal," she identified the dragon. "He still mourns for his brother."

Thinking of Robb and Rickon, Jon replied, "I know how he feels."

Daenerys cupped his face in her hand and pulled him towards her. And then she was kissing him, her hands tangled in his hair. Jon slid his hands down her back and pulled her close. The ship jerked suddenly sending him stumbling backwards the bed. Daenerys landed in his lap, but didn't stop the kiss. Barely daring to breathe, Jon skimmed his hand over the swell of her breast and wondered what her skin felt like beneath the thick layer of fabric. Daenerys ran her hands down his chest, but he couldn't feel it thanks to the armor, which he very much wished he wasn't wearing right now. Just as he wondering if he dared take something off or, more specifically, dared take something off of Daenerys, Jon heard someone clear their throat loudly.

Daenerys quickly disengaged and slid gracefully off of Jon's lap. Rising, she turned to face Lord Tyrion who was standing in the doorway and pointedly not looking at Jon.

"The ship has arrived at King's Landing, Your Grace," Tyrion told her.

Daenerys looked not at all perturbed that Tyrion had found them in a compromising situation. "Thank you. I'll be up right way," she said and swept towards the door, not looking at Jon.

Blood pounding in his ears, Jon tried to convince his body to calm down.

"Coming?" Tyrion asked and quirked a sardonic eyebrow at Jon.

He stood up and faced Tyrion. "Into the Lion's den," he said, pretending that it was perfectly normal to be caught kissing the queen.

"Indeed," Tyrion said. And they all went up to the deck.


	2. Interlude on a Roof

_**Jon and Tyrion hang out on the roof post-summit. Provides context on Tyrion's frame of mind during the 7x07 (in my mind anyway).**_

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Jon leaned on the ramparts of the small castle that Daenerys's court was staying at for the night before heading North. Her court, which he was now a part of. It was the right thing, not to lie earlier about his promise. He knew it was and yet he still hadn't rid himself of the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. On the outskirts of the city, Jon looked out over Blackwater Bay. King's Landing made him uneasy and not just because of who ruled it. It was too warm, too crowded, and too noisy. He longed for the forests of the North and silence of the snow.

"Not bad for a brooding location."

Jon looked behind him and saw Tyrion standing by the trapdoor leading down into the house.

"Isolated, elevated, decent view," Tyrion said and walked over to Jon's side. "Could use a few menacing clouds though." The sky was a relentlessly cheerful blue.

"I'm thinking, not brooding." Jon turned away from Tyrion and stared resolutely out at the water.

"You snuck off by yourself to the highest point you could find and I can almost see the shroud of darkness you carry around. I call that brooding. Wine?" Tyrion offered him a wineskin.

"No," Jon said shortly.

Tyrion shrugged and leaned with his back against the stone. "Suit yourself," he replied, taking a swig.

"What are you doing up here then?" Jon demanded.

"Brooding," Tyrion replied, taking another swallow of wine.

Jon snorted a laugh despite himself. "Does the wine help with that?"

"I find that wine helps with a good many situations. Or at least it helps me forget what was troubling me to begin with."

Jon took the proffered wineskin this time. "So the meeting bothered you too?"

"No one was killed, maimed, or imprisoned. Cersei gave us all we could have asked for. It's an auspicious start," Tyrion said.

"But you don't trust her," Jon finished.

"Of course not. I know my sister. Everything hangs on her fearing the Night King more than wanting to seize the opportunity to take back her lands," Tyrion responded.

"Will she bring her army North to fight for us?" Jon asked.

"I have no idea and I can't do anything about it either way. That worries me. Hence the brooding," Tyrion replied.

The two men brooded in silence for a while, passing the wineskin back and forth between them.

"I meant no disrespect this morning," Jon said suddenly. He could still feel the weight of Daenerys in his lap, the taste of her lips, the smell of her hair. "In the cabin, I mean," he clarified when Tyrion looked confused.

"Ah." Tyrion took a long swig of wine. "Well, I am not her father or brother, but only her Hand. Daenerys chooses her own bed partners."

Jon found himself bothered by the use of the plural for "partner." "We didn't …" Jon began. "She kissed me. It didn't go any farther." He wasn't sure why he felt the need to explain.

"You don't need to tell me this," Tyrion said, his voice gentle. "On this matter, Daenerys keeps her own counsel."

"But you disapprove." Jon felt strangely disappointed by Tyrion's reaction.

"Are you asking me as her friend or her Hand?"

"Either. Both." Jon looked away from Tyrion and back out at the water.

"As her Hand, I'd say that Daenerys may to need to marry soon in order to secure her territory and that complicated emotional entanglements are best avoided."

"And as her friend?" Jon asked.

Tyrion passed him the wineskin. "As her friend, I'd say that we have a long and bloody war ahead of us and everyone should take comfort where they can."

"If we die, we die, but first we'll live," Jon quoted. The memory of Ygritte had grown less painful with time, but Jon didn't think he'd ever get rid of the shame he felt whenever her face came to mind.

"A wise philosophy for this day and age. I didn't think you were that fatalistic," Tyrion said appreciatively.

"A wilding girl told me that once," Jon replied.

"And where is she now, this wilding girl of yours?"

"She died," Jon said shortly. Unbidden, Ygritte's face as she lay dying in his arms swam into view. And then the faces of all the others he had failed to save followed.

"To lost loves." Tyrion drank from the wineskin and handed it to Jon.

The wine, Jon found, was beginning to dull the brooding thoughts that had sent him up to the roof, but they were being rapidly replaced by a growing melancholy. "Were you in love once?" Jon asked, preferring to hear about Tyrion's troubles than to think about his own.

"I killed the last woman I thought I loved after she betrayed me and ended up in my father's bed. Romance ends in tears, I find. Brief encounters are best, Jon. Don't get involved, that's my advice."

"That's a lonely way to live." Whatever Daenerys might or might not feel for him, Jon already knew that his relationship with her could not be brief or uncomplicated. She was already the first thing he thought of in the morning and the last thing at night.

Tyrion shrugged. "There's always friendship, books. I'm never bored. We've risen high, you and me, since we last spoke on the Wall. But I'm still a dwarf and you're still a bastard."

"A dwarf who is the Hand and bastard who was a King." Not that Jon had ever felt like a king. It had been a relief in many ways to swear fealty to Daenerys.

"What you need," Tyrion said whilst pointing a stubby finger at him, "is to make a good match and sire half a dozen children. Nothing washes away the sins of bastard-dom like an advantageous marriage."

Tyrion, Jon suspected, was not entirely sober at this point. "Marry but not love?" Jon asked a bit wistfully. He knew most marriages among the highborn were arranged and only cordial at best. But still, he couldn't help but long for something he'd likely never have.

"Westeros is littered with tales of love gone wrong," Tyrion said cynically.

"Arranged marriages are the way of the world for people like us. Pleasantly congenial during the day and a passionless diversion at night."

"Like you and Sansa?" Jon glanced sidelong at Tyrion who was now shaking the apparently empty wineskin upside down.

"Pity." Tyrion threw aside the empty wineskin. He fished a second one out of his tunic. "Ah, I knew I came prepared. Yes, like me and Sansa. Well, maybe not quite that passionless being as there was no diversion whatsoever at night. But if I had a less murderous family, I think I could have made her happy, or at least content, in time."

"She dreamed of marrying a prince as a child." Jon still remembered the endless games Sansa had once played where she coerced Robb or Bran or Theon into playing the part of her prince in pretend marriages. Never him though.

"Yes, well, we all have to give up childhood dreams sometimes. Joffrey had rather soured Sansa on princes by the time I married her," Tyrion said.

Thinking of Daenerys, Jon said, "I don't know if I can live like that. In a passionless marriage, I mean."

"Ah, a true romantic." Tyrion saluted him with the wineskin. "I was young once, too."

Jon shifted uncomfortably. He wanted flaxen hair, and eyes such a pale blue as to be almost lavender, and someone who could ride into battle beside him. He knew he wasn't worthy of her. He knew he shouldn't reach so high. But it was hard to remember that when Daenerys had already reached for him.

"Daenerys is young too," Tyrion said, obviously guessing the train of Jon's thoughts. "She still loves where it would be wiser not to."

"Would it be so unwise?" Jon asked, trying not to sound plaintive.

"In another time, perhaps not. A marriage is time-honored tradition to solidify an alliance after all. But your very romantic declaration of fealty earlier nearly derailed our tentative peace with my sister entirely. Cersei is like a cornered fox. Should you irrevocably link the North's fate with Daenerys Targaryen, I have no doubt my sister would lash out and break whatever peace we've secured. Our future is fragile and the faint illusion of hope may be all that keeps my sister's armies pointed in the right direction." Tyrion sounded apologetic.

"I won't break my word. I swore to follow Daenerys and I will," Jon insisted.

Tyrion put his hand on Jon's arm. "I know," Tyrion said softly. "I do know that. But kings and queens cannot make decisions without considering the consequences. No action is free from the game."

Jon swallowed hard and looked away.

"Do you truly love her then?" Tyrion probed.

He did, Jon admitted to himself. Even what he had felt for Ygritte didn't compare to how he felt about Daenerys. He'd betrayed Ygritte in the name of duty to the Watch. He wasn't sure he'd be able to make the same choice between Daenerys and the oaths he'd sworn.

"Lord Hand," Missandei's voice interrupted the conversation. "Our queen wishes your counsel."

Tyrion straightened up. "At once," he said to Missandei. Turning to Jon and handing him the wineskin, he said, "You'd best keep this. You need it more than me right now."

Jon watched as Daenerys's two closest advisors disappeared back through the trap door. No matter what Tyrion said, Jon didn't think he had the strength to give Daenerys up. Not so long as she returned his affection anyway.


	3. Interlude on a Beach

_**Jorah tells Jon what he thinks. Next chapter gets back to Jon and Daenerys, I promise.**_

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"My lord, a word?"

Jon turned to see Ser Jorah hurrying down the steps of the Dragonstone Keep. "Jorah, of course. No need for titles at this point, I think."

The older man nodded his head. "Jon. I'm worried about the ride from White Harbor."

"So you said in the council chamber. Queen Daenerys chose to follow my plan." Jon paused to let Jorah catch up with him.

"Aye, she chose." Jorah grimaced. "You know how Northerners can be," he continued. "As head of the Queensguard, I must ensure the queen's safety."

Jorah, Jon thought, was worried about something beyond the ride. "We'll fly the Stark banners and I'll be beside her the whole way. She'll come to no harm, I promise you."

Jorah tightened his lips as if in pain. "I would die for her if need be," he said, his voice thick with feeling.

"As would I," Jon returned the sentiment. They reached the bottom of the steps. Jon stopped and turned to face Jorah head on. "I'm a plain man. Speak your concerns. Please."

Jorah looked out at the water, where Theon's boats could be seen disappearing over the horizon. "I've known Daenerys for many years. I watched her grow from a shy girl to the queen she is today."

Jon stayed silent and waited for Jorah to get to the point.

"She may seem strong, but she's lost much over the years; her husband, her brother, her unborn son. Now, Viserion is gone too. Those dragons are her family."

"I know," Jon said. Jorah, he thought, did not give Daenerys enough credit. She was no wayward child in need of protection.

"I would not see her hurt and I've seen how you look at each other." Jorah faced Jon squarely.

At this distance, Jon was suddenly very aware of how much taller Jorah was than him. "I've no intention of hurting her," Jon said, letting the growing anger he felt creep into his voice. Must everyone comment on his relationship with Daenerys?

"We don't always intend to, but we do," Jorah returned gruffly.

"With due respect, Ser Jorah, this is none of your concern," Jon asserted. He respected Jorah Mormont both for his father's sake and in his own right, but he wasn't about to stand still for a lecture.

Jorah stood his ground. "When it comes to my queen's well-being, everything is my concern. Your father was an honorable man. Do not disgrace his memory by doing something he'd disapprove of."

This new tactic brought Jon up short. Would his father have disapproved? Ned's moral code was oft cited and absolute … and yet, Jon thought rebelliously, his own existence was proof that Ned had had his failings once. "I'll keep that in mind," Jon gritted out begrudgingly.

Jorah nodded in acknowledgment, apparently satisfied. "I'll see you on the ship," Jorah bid farewell and strode off down the beach where Daenerys's men were assembling supplies for the voyage.

Tyrion was right, Jon thought. Kings and queens didn't have the luxury of privacy. Not for the first time, he wished for the simplicity of living among the Free Folk.


	4. Interlude on a Deck

_**Jon and Daenerys on the deck of the ship heading to Whiteharbor. I admit that I had a ton of fun writing this chapter - hope you enjoy it.**_

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Jon leaned on the railing of the ship and watched Dragonstone shrink into the distance. At long last, he was on his way home. They'd reach White Harbor in a couple of weeks and then it was another few weeks to ride to Winterfell. He hoped they weren't too late.

"Strange to think of my ancestors living there." Daenerys joined Jon by the railing.

Jon glanced at her. He hadn't had a moment alone with her since that brief conversation in the dragon pit. "Are you sorry to leave your home?"

"I'm not sure it ever felt like home truly. I've dreamed of Westeros my entire life, but I'm still a stranger here." Daenerys turned to look up at Jon.

Jon grabbed Daenerys's hand impulsively. "You are home. People will learn to accept you," Jon assured her.

Daenerys squeezed his hand. "Even your people?" she asked.

"Especially mine," Jon breathed, looking into her eyes.

Daenerys smiled in response. "Tell me about the North."

"It's cold and isolated in the North. Crops don't grow easily there. But it's beautiful. The forests are old, much older than the people who live there. Alone in the woods, it's hard not to feel insignificant." Jon remembered the hours he'd spent hunting in those woods with Robb. He was going home, but it would never be the refuge of his childhood with his father and brothers dead and gone.

"And the people?" Daenerys asked.

Jon sighed. He'd promised that the Northerners would accept Daenerys, but he knew it wouldn't be easy. "The North is a hard land and its people do not trust easily. Our lives are governed by traditions. We must remind them of the years when your ancestors ruled the land in peace, not the years of the Mad King. It may not be easy, riding through the lands whose last memory of a Targaryen are cloaked in blood and fire."

"I trust you," Daenerys promised.

Trust, Jon knew, was a fragile thing. Difficult to earn, harder to keep. He'd asked it of her before he had any right to expect it. "I've asked Sansa to send some of my bannermen to meet us at Whiteharbor. You'll have an escort of Northmen all the way to Winterfell. I'll keep you safe."

Daenerys looked at him with a small smile and sad eyes. "I don't fear for my safety."

"I do," Jon said back. He understood Jorah's impulse to send Daenerys north on her dragons. But ultimately, she'd only survive to rule if the people of Westeros saw her as Queen, not conqueror.

Jon wasn't sure who moved first this time, but Daenerys was in his arms once more. Her lips were sweet against his own and his tongue battled hers for dominance. Jon turned to brace her against the railing, one hand buried in her hair and the other preventing them from tumbling to the waters below. Daenerys made a soft sound of pleasure as he pressed up against her. She clutched his shoulders and gasped as Jon trailed kisses down her exposed neck. Daenerys grasped his head and guided his mouth back to hers. For a moment, she was all that existed in his world.

 _Duty_. _Consequences_. The unwelcome words of Jorah and Tyrion intruded on Jon's thoughts. And, he realized, they were in full view of anyone who might walk behind the mizzen mast. Jon broke away, leaving Daenerys staring at him with wide eyes and swollen lips. "Are you sure we should be doing this?" Jon panted.

Daenerys stalked towards him. "I see no reason not to."

"Your advisors do," Jon said, capturing the hand Daenerys raised towards his cheek.

Daenerys abruptly dropped her hand and stepped back. "Which advisors?" she snarled, her eyes flashing with anger.

Jon realized too late that telling her this might not have been the best idea. "Tyrion," he said reluctantly. "And Jorah."

Daenerys raised her eyebrows incredulously. "Tyrion thinks too much. And Jorah is an old mother hen. Are you saying that you discussed me, this, with both of them?"

Jon very much wanted to deny it, but it was too late now. "They approached me," he said defensively. "They're worried."

"That," Daenerys said decisively, "is not their place. They're my advisors – why would they talk to you?"

Jon shrugged helplessly.

"Men with too much time on their hands get into trouble. I'm their queen, a fact which I'll remind them of. If they have concerns, they should speak to me about it." Daenerys turned away from him to lean on the railing.

Jon did not want to be Jorah or Tyrion in that moment. He approached her gingerly. "They made me realize that this thing between us may not be simple."

"Oh?" Daenerys raised one eyebrow and looked at him. "Jorah and Tyrion advise me, nothing more. I make my own decisions. You should make yours."

"Daenerys." Jon looked into her eyes, wanting nothing more than to press her up against the railing again.

"Come to my cabin tonight," Daenerys said, her tone just shy of a command. "Or don't. Decide for yourself." With that, she turned and swept away.

Jon watched her retreating form, her elaborate braids slightly mussed and her skirts swishing angrily about her ankles. He wanted to rush after her and apologize. He wanted to drag her downstairs now. He wanted, just once, to forget that she was the queen and he was the bastard of Winterfell, but instead his doubts kept him immobilized by the railing.


	5. Interlude in a Cabin

**_Jon and Daenerys in the cabin on the boat. Yes, it's THAT scene, hence the change in rating. TBH, this is pretty far outside my comfort zone, but I gave it a go anyway. Last chapter update didn't seem to trigger the date tag to update, which left my story buried several pages in. No idea if the site is going to correct this glitch, but I recommend following the story if you're enjoying it as it won't necessarily pop to the top of the stack._**

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Jon stood outside the door to Daenerys's cabin. There was no choice in the end. He was drawn to her the way he'd never been drawn to anyone. He only hoped he hadn't utterly fucked things up. Jon raised his hand and knocked sharply on the door.

A heart-wracking pause and then Daenerys opened the door. Jon didn't say anything; he didn't need to. He looked at her with a question in his eyes, _may he come in?_ Daenerys stepped aside to let him enter. Jon took a breath and stepped inside. Facing her, he closed the door.

Still, Daenerys didn't speak. Jon looked at her with his heart in his throat. There were so many things that he wanted to tell her. That he was sorry. That she was the most extraordinary woman in the world. That he loved her. Instead, he held out his hand, inviting her to take it.

Daenerys placed her hand gently in his and looked up at him. Jon drew her close and kissed her, more tenderly than he ever had before. He put his apology and everything else he had into the kiss, hoping she understood. Daenerys returned the kiss slowly, raising her hand to his cheek.

Jon drifted his hand to the front of Daenerys's dress and paused. "I want this," he told her. "I want you."

Daenerys smiled at him and Jon felt warm all the way down to his toes. "Good," she said. "So do I."

They undressed each other carefully, savoring each moment, until they were laid bare in all ways. Daenerys led Jon to her bed then where they both explored each other's bodies with tentative hands. Daenerys traced Jon's scars and Jon worshipped Daenerys with his mouth until she was spent. Near the end, Jon drew back to gaze on his queen and thought he never seen any woman as beautiful as she. When he would have pulled out to avoid potential complications, Daenerys clutched him closer until he came in a final rush of release.

Breathing heavily, Jon rested in silence for a moment, putting his forehead against Daenerys's. Then he gave her one final lingering kiss and disengaged, rolling over. He expected Daenerys to pull away then and rise to wash up, but instead she lay her head on his shoulder and snuggled closer. Jon wanted to tell her everything, but held back, remembering suddenly that he was in bed with the queen.

"What are you thinking, Jon Snow?" Daenerys asked while trailing a hand down his chest.

"I was thinking how I never expected to be here," Jon laughed.

"What, here with me? Or on this ship?"

"Any of it," Jon said with feeling. "With you, sailing back from Dragonstone to save the North. I never I thought I'd be in bed with any woman let alone a queen."

Daenerys raised herself up on an elbow to stare at Jon incredulously. "Never? Why not?"

" _I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children_ ," Jon quoted. "The Night's Watch was to be my life. A fitting place for a bastard who had none."

"I hadn't thought about the Night's Watch being celibate," Daenerys mused. "I can't imagine that works well."

Jon laughed in memory. "It doesn't, really. There was a village, not more than a collection of huts, just south of Castle Black where men used to go. It helped relieve the pressure. A bit, anyway."

"Did you?" Daenerys asked curiously.

"No," Jon said, a little too emphatically. "I took my vows seriously. As much as I could anyway."

"You don't mean …" Daenerys widened her eyes significantly.

"No," Jon insisted and flushed in embarrassment. "I'm not … there was another once. One of the Free Folk north of the Wall. I was spying and had to pretend I was one of them so when she … I shouldn't be telling you this." Jon stopped abruptly and closed his eyes.

Daenerys laughed. "Why ever not? Do Westerosi men not discuss bed sport?"

"Not as a general rule, no. Or not with women anyway," Jon explained, wondering how he'd gotten into this conversation.

"People in Essos are not so prudish, I think. One of my handmaidens taught me the ways in which to please a man," Daenerys reminisced.

Heat flooded Jon's face as his imagination conjured up an image of a naked Daenerys with another woman. "A woman taught you to fuck?" Jon asked, shocked into vulgarity.

Laughing, Daenerys swung her leg over Jon and straddled him. "She taught me a great deal more than that. Shall I show you?"

Jon swallowed hard. "In a bit, perhaps," Jon said in a strangled voice.

Daenerys climbed off the bed and went over to the wash basin. "You're strangely innocent, Jon Snow. Not like other men I've known."

"My father had firm beliefs on what was right and wrong. That's not a bad thing, is it?" Jon rolled onto his side and watched as Daenerys cleaned herself from the basin.

Daenerys looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. "No, it isn't, especially for a ruler. My brother Viserys, I'm sad to say, thought of little beyond his own desires. He was a weak and cruel man."

"Good thing he's not the king then," Jon commented as Daenerys returned to sit on the bed with him.

"Mmm," Daenerys agreed, tucking her legs up underneath her. "He used to promise to marry me and make me queen. Before he sold me to Khal Drogo, anyway."

Jon's stomach churned at the thought. "Your own brother would have married you? That's not right."

"Targaryens have oft married their own kin. My own parents were siblings and of course, Aegon the Conqueror took both of his sisters to bed," Daenerys commented.

Jon shook his head vehemently. "No, that's just wrong. I knew that happened from the stories, but somehow it's different thinking of real people doing so."

"Truth be told, I would not have wanted to marry Viserys. Marrying Khal Drogo helped make me what I am today."

"I'm glad." Jon drew Daenerys back down to lie on his chest. "Being here with you, seeing dragons, it's as if the stories have come to life."

"I grew up on stories of Westeros. Most of them of wildly fictitious, I now understand. Viserys used to tell me about our kind and wise father who was unfairly murdered and the evil Baratheons and Starks who took his throne. I wish I knew what was truth. But almost no one who knew my parents is still alive today."

"My father was a good man. I think King Robert was too, in his own way. Everyone has flaws though, even my father. I knew one of your relatives," Jon said, suddenly remembering. "Maester Aemon at Castle Black. He'd be your … he was the older brother of Aegon V."

Daenerys frowned, calculating. "My great-great uncle then. I remember the history – he abdicated in favor of Aegon and then vanished. He must have been ancient!"

"He was," Jon confirmed. "He was a good man though. And kind. No one even remembered that he was a Targaryen. He told me he regretted being unable to come to aid of your family during Robert's Rebellion, but that his duty to the Night's Watch took precedence." _Love is the death of duty_ , Jon remembered Maester Aemon saying. And yet he'd forgiven Jon's transgressions with Ygritte. Where, he thought, would Aemon have stood on this, with Daenerys?

"To have lived so long and seen so much," Daenerys wondered. "I would have liked to have met him."

"So would have he. I wish he were here to advise us now. Men like him kept the Night's Watch neutral and above the wars that consumed the rest of the land. The people of Westeros have neglected the Wall for too long and I now fear that may doom us all."

"Can we trust Cersei to join us? Or at least hold to the truce? Tyrion, I know, has doubts."

Jon sighed. "Last time my family trusted the Lannisters, my father was imprisoned and beheaded. I think that trust is not something I'm capable of. But I must have faith that she'll hold to her word as I'll hold to mine. We've limited options."

"I think I prefer a more pragmatic approach than faith. If Cersei betrays us, I will not hold back my dragons again," Daenerys promised fiercely.

Daenerys, Jon thought, was nearly a dragon herself with that look in her eyes. But he didn't want to think about the upcoming battles just now. "You mentioned lessons earlier?" Jon prompted, sliding his hand over her bare butt and gently squeezing.

Daenerys grinned at him impishly. Grasping his wrists, she raised them over his head. "Indeed. Shall we begin?" And then there was no more talking for some time.

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 ** _Note: I'm sticking to book canon with regards to Aemon's relationship to Daenerys – show canon deleted a generation of Targaryens – hence the "great-great."_**


	6. Interlude in an Inn

**_In truth, I'd intended to end the story with the last segment. But I found the prospect of some of the upcoming scenes too good to pass up (and the canon versions too far in the future). This is where we depart from missing scenes but plausible canon as I'm sure the show will eventually have their own versions. So be it. I'm assuming that Jon and others have been informed about Bran's abilities by now. I didn't feel like wasting time on that bit of exposition._**

* * *

Jon woke suddenly, automatically reaching for his sword, before he remembered that he'd left in his room. It was not yet dawn, but would be soon, which meant that it was time to sneak back to his own bed. Nearly two weeks in Daenerys's bed had made this near habit, but no less humiliating. Jon heard sound of footsteps in the corridor of the inn and realized that he'd awoken from the noise. Silently he reached for a dagger – noise in the middle of the night rarely heralded good news.

Daenerys stirred beside him. "Leaving?" she blinked sleepily at him.

Jon laid a finger over his lips. More footsteps and then a sharp knock on the door. Jon tensed.

"Raven from Winterfell, my queen." Tyrion's voice was muffled through the door.

Jon only relaxed slightly. Very few ravens could be trained to fly at night. That Sansa had used one of them when they'd be at Winterfell within the week did not bode well. Daenerys pulled on a robe that was far too filmy for Jon's Northern sensibilities and opened the door a crack, keeping Jon hidden from view.

"Tyrion," Daenerys greeted her Hand.

"Apologies, Your Grace. News arriving at this hour is likely to be urgent," Tyrion replied.

"I understand," Daenerys answered, holding out her hand for scroll.

Jon heard Tyrion take a breath. "It's addressed to Lord Snow."

"I see." Daenerys's voice could have frosted over windows.

When she didn't open the door farther, Tyrion continued. "Please don't think of me as a stupid man, Your Grace. I spent half my life watching Jaime sneak in and out of Cersei's chambers and I've done my own fair share sneaking around as well," he said quietly.

Jon finally managed to get a shirt on over his head, though he didn't bother to lace it. At least he'd put his smallclothes back on before falling asleep. He placed a hand on Daenerys's shoulder and opened the door fully. "Let me see," he told Tyrion.

Tyrion handed both the candle and scroll to Jon who took it over to the small table that completed the room's furnishings. Breaking the seal, he quickly scanned the contents. Jon clenched his fist and handed the scroll to Daenerys. "You need to read this," he told her.

Jon turned towards Tyrion. "We must ride for Winterfell as soon as possible. The Wall at Eastwatch has fallen. And Bran saw the Night King riding Viserion." Behind him, Daenerys inhaled sharply as she took in the implications.

Tyrion grimaced. "That is … most unfortunate."

It's a fucking disaster, Jon thought. And all his fault, he couldn't help but feel. Daenerys made a small sound of distress. Her fist was pressed against her mouth and her eyes were wide with unshed tears. Past caring what Tyrion thought, Jon gathered her into his arms. She buried her face into his chest. "We won't let him keep Viserion. We won't," he told her fiercely.

Daenerys merely trembled in response.

"How quickly can we get to Winterfell?" Tyrion asked.

"Five days at our current pace," Jon said, calculating. "Maybe three if we change horses every two hours and sleep rough."

Daenerys, in control once more, drew away from him. "We move out within the hour. Make the arrangements, Tyrion. I'll burn everything south of the Wall if I must, but the Night King will not get to keep my dragon."

Jon collected the rest of his things and walked out the door with Tyrion to get ready. "It is fortunate that the innkeeper knocked on the wrong door tonight," Tyrion informed him quietly. "A man absent from his bed in the wee hours of the morning makes people talk."

Jon's ears burned in humiliation. He felt like he was ten years old again, getting berated by his father. Worse, he knew Tyrion was right. "Our sleeping arrangements are not important just now."

"No," Tyrion agreed, pausing by Jon's door. "But someday, when Queen Daenerys needs the loyalty of the southern lords, a rumor may tip the balance. You know what they'd say about a queen bedding a bastard."

Jon did know, since he'd been the recipient of those comments for most of his life. "What would you suggest?" he asked reluctantly.

"You must choose between love and duty," Tyrion advised. "If you marry her, you'll form a formidable alliance between the North and our forces. You'll also enrage Cersei and risk permanently offending the South. Our united forces may crumble before the war is even enjoined. But you'll have her. And be king of Westeros, so long as it exists anyway."

Somehow Jon had never considered what marrying Daenerys might mean in the global sense. He didn't even want to be King in the North, let alone all of Westeros. "Or?" he prompted, knowing that Tyrion had more to say.

"Or you give her up and watch as she marries someone else. You return to the North and make a great passel of babies with a comely Northern lass and live out your days in peace as Warden of the North." Tyrion paused to let his words sink in. "Since neither option seems especially likely, I suggest that if you do continue as you have been, at least rumple your bedding before leaving. The secrecy of an affair rests upon the details."

Tyrion walked off to his own room, leaving Jon clenching his fist. It would be impolitic to hit the dwarf, as much as it might feel good in the moment. _Love and duty_ , the words of Aemon Targaryen continued to haunt him all these years later. For now, at least, his goal was clear and so he made ready to ride.


	7. Interlude in the Courtyard

**_Reunion at Winterfell scene. Switching POV to Sansa for a couple of chapters._**

Sansa paced the walls of Winterfell anxiously. From the raven Jon had sent, she knew that he hoped to arrive by today and not a moment too soon given the news from Eastwatch. Everyone north of Winterfell had been evacuating for days ever since Bran had awoken her in the middle of the night to tell her the news. Sansa had been sending the women and children South, but conscripting every able-bodied man between 16 and 60. Those who were willing to fight were being trained to do so while the rest she'd put to work organizing supplies and building defenses. There was no lack of things she should be doing, but the prospect of Jon arriving had her on edge all day. She'd given up writing yet more letters as a lost cause and taken to the ramparts to await his arrival. And not just his, but the dragon queen as well. Who was this woman that Jon saw fit to entrust the fate of the North to?

Finally, she heard a horn blast and the gates of Winterfell opened to admit the party – smaller than Sansa had been expecting. Jon looked much as he had last time she'd seen him, though at least he looked neater and managed his hair better now than he had as a boy. Riding next to him and looking as if she'd been born in the saddle – Sansa's breath caught. Daenerys Targaryen was quite possibly the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen. It wasn't just her silver hair or bee-stung lips, but Daenerys carried herself with a confidence unmatched even by Cersei. Where Cersei seemed brittle, Daenerys seemed utterly at home with herself even riding into a marginally friendly keep with only a token guard. She must, Sansa realized, truly trust Jon, which spoke well of her in one aspect at least.

A loud cry sent Sansa's eyes upwards. Her breath caught as she saw two dragons circling the keep. She knew of their existence, of course, but seeing them was entirely different than hearing about them. Sansa started to make her way down to the courtyard to greet her brother and their royal guest.

Jon swiftly dismounted and then offered his hand to Daenerys to aid her down. She accepted, a bit surprisingly, since any woman who rode that well surely didn't need the help. Sansa noted with a twinge of envious satisfaction that Daenerys was quite short when not on a horse. Jon was still looking at his queen when a shout from across the yard interrupted them. Sansa looked heavenward and prayed for strength as she saw her sister hurtling over the ground towards their brother. She'd hoped that Arya might have gained some sense over the years and know not to act like a complete hooligan in front of royalty, but she seemed to have only acquired the skills to murder people in multiple inventive ways.

Sansa blanched as Daenerys's two guards reacted to the potential threat of her sister. They stepped in front of Daenerys and began to draw their swords until she stopped them with a rapid command. Sansa began to hurry down the stairs as quickly as possible without it being unseemly for the Lady of Winterfell. Daenerys's guards weren't wrong to view Arya as a danger though from what Sansa had seen, two guards would not necessarily be enough to stop her. Jon, at least, let go of Daenerys's hand and ran forward to greet Arya. Sansa's lips quirked in a smile when Jon picked up their youngest sister in an enormous bear hug. Despite all their differences, he'd greeted her that way too, at the Wall.

At last, Sansa reached the royal party. Jon was still occupied with hugging Arya so it was up to Sansa to show the queen that they weren't completely without manners in the North. She curtsied gracefully. "Queen Daenerys, I bid you welcome to our home. I'm Lady Stark and I've instructed rooms to be prepared for you and your party."

Daenerys smiled graciously. "Thank you, Lady Stark. Jon has told me much about you."

Sansa's eyebrow twitched. _Jon_ and not Lord Snow, she thought – the dragon queen assumed an overly casual familiarity.

"Your Grace, these are my sisters Sansa and Arya," Jon interjected, having finally remembered his duty.

Arya executed a surprisingly passable bow. Sansa did wish her sister looked a little less like she was deciding whether Queen Daenerys was a bug that needed to be squished though.

"I apologize for the disarray – refugees have been arriving daily since the Wall fell," Sansa said after suitable pleasantries had been exchanged.

"Understandable. What is being done to secure the North?" Daenerys asked Sansa in the manner of expecting a military report.

"I ordered a complete evacuation of everyone north of Last River, Your Grace. Until your armies arrive, our best defense is to deprive the Night King of further soldiers. The Night's Watch, or what's left of them, is establishing barricades and traps to limit movement of the Army of the Dead as best they can. They've avoided direct engagement thus far. Bran has been very useful in tracking everyone's position."

Daenerys straightened. "Good. As you know the North and are familiar with the people, I'd like you to work with my Hand on these plans going forward."

Sansa nodded in acknowledgement, pleased she would not be dismissed entirely now that Jon was back. At those words, Tyrion stepped forward. "My lady Sansa," he with an overly formal bow.

Sansa smiled in spite of herself. Between time and the experience with Ramsay, she'd come to look back on her short marriage to Tyrion with much more appreciation than she'd ever felt back then. Though still not someone she'd ever wish to wed, she realized now that Tyrion had been nearly as trapped she. "Hello, Tyrion," she acknowledged him.

Tyrion's looks had not improved any, but his mind clearly hadn't diminished. "Miss me?"

"Let's just say that your good points are better appreciated in your absence," Sansa tweaked him.

Tyrion mock winced. "I'm glad to see you looking well, Sansa," he said sincerely.

"As am I," she returned the sentiment.

"Where's Bran?" Jon interrupted.

"Out in the Godswood, probably. He spends most of his time there. Jon … Bran is different now," Arya warned.

To put it mildly, Sansa thought. She'd never be able to look at Bran the same after he reminisced on how "beautiful" she looked on her wedding night. They were all different since the last time they'd been together at Winterfell, but Bran had changed more than any of them.

"I know, but I still need to see him," Jon said.

A lumbering presence behind Sansa made a new addition to the group. "He wants to see you too. Right away. Hello, Jon," Sam greeted her brother.

As Jon joyously grasped arms with Sam and introduced him to the queen, Sansa caught Tyrion flinching. Curious, she thought, not having any idea what Sam could do to make anyone flinch since he reminded her of nothing more than an overgrown puppy most of the time.

Introductions complete, Sansa gestured for the steward to take over getting everyone settled in their rooms. Placing a hand on the small of Daenerys's back, Sansa watched Jon guide her to the door of the keep before making his farewell. Curious, Sansa thought. She'd never known Jon to pay so much attention to a girl he wasn't related to – he'd been nearly indifferent to them when they were younger and entirely oblivious to the effect of his curls on the serving maids.


	8. Interlude in the Godswood

**Jon talks to Bran in the godswood. Things are going to get a bit angsty from here on out.**

* * *

Sansa followed Sam back to the godswood along with Jon and Arya ("family business" Sam had insisted cryptically). Jon was busy trying to relate several years' worth of news to Sam not entirely successfully. Sansa could sympathize having gone through her own forced catch-up with her siblings. She was still a bit unclear as to how her sister became an assassin and she didn't think she'd ever understand what happened to Bran.

"Did you visit your family before coming North?" Jon asked Sam.

Sam shook his head. "I stole the family sword before I went to Oldtown. I don't think I'd be welcome. Besides, Gilly has had enough of my father for one lifetime."

Jon stopped walking abruptly and laid his hand on Sam's arm. "Sam, I think we need to talk."

"Later," Sam said easily. "Ah, here we are then."

Bran was arranged underneath the branches of the weir tree where he so often was these days. Tears pricked Sansa's eyes as she watched Jon greet their brother, searching for some trace of the wild little boy who used to climb the castle walls.

"Sam said you wanted to see me?" Jon asked Bran.

"I think … Sam had better tell you," Bran said in that strangely flat voice of his.

Sam shifted his girth uncomfortably. "Right. Well, um, I don't suppose there's a good way to say this. It's funny how history doesn't always match up with the stories we tell, isn't it? I mean Florian the Fool is described as a knight, but knights didn't even exist in Westeros back then. And …"

"Sam!" Arya interrupted when it seemed that Sam might ramble about inconsequential events for an unspecified period of time.

Sam took a deep breath. "Well, you see, Robert's Rebellion was a bit more complicated than we thought. Prince Rhaegar didn't abduct Lyanna Stark. They eloped and were married in Dorne after he got his marriage to Elia Martell annulled. I read about it in the high septon's diary and Bran confirmed it."

"That's all very interesting, but it hardly changes anything twenty some years later," Sansa said icily. It did, upon reflection, make the whole thing a bit more of a tragedy – would her uncle Brandon have haired off to King's Landing if he'd known the truth of it? No matter now.

"Well, that's what I thought, but Bran saw something else. Lyanna Stark was pregnant and bore a son before she died," Sam continued, looking directly at Jon.

Sansa felt cold. A horrible certainty crept over her.

"Jon, your real name is Aegon Targaryen and you're the rightful heir to the Iron Throne," Sam said gently.

Jon's face turned completely white. No one spoke for what seemed like hours, though it was probably less than a minute.

"It doesn't matter. You're still our brother," Arya asserted. She glared at Sansa as if daring her to deny it.

"Of course, he is," Sansa said absently. But Arya was wrong. It did matter. It changed everything. All the pieces that had never fit, never made sense fell into place. Why her father had never talked about Jon's mother. Why he stayed up North for so many years. Why he'd never asked King Robert, his best friend, to legitimize Jon.

"No," Jon said finally, a guttural sound ripping from his throat. He turned abruptly and punched a nearby tree so hard that a few leaves fell. Apparently still unsatisfied, he continued to pummel the tree.

Sansa flinched as they all watched Jon vent his fury on the defenseless tree. Eventually, Jon slowed and stopped, his knuckles bleeding freely from multiple cuts. A silent shape slipped up next to Jon; Ghost, summoned by who knew what means. Jon sank to his knees and buried his face the direwolf's ruff.

"Father _knew_ ," Arya said into the silence, outraged. Of course, Sansa realized. Father must have known everything. "He knew and he never told Mother. He let her treat Jon all those years like he wasn't one of us. Like he didn't belong."

Typical of Arya to focus on the personal injury done to Jon instead of seeing the much bigger picture. "He had to protect Jon. No one could know," Sansa explained, half talking to herself. Sansa loved her mother. But if Lady Catelyn had known that Jon was Rhaegar's son, she would have treated him differently; she couldn't have helped it. She would have been more gentle towards Jon, more understanding, and someone might have guessed the truth.

"Father promised Lyanna he'd look after the baby," Bran said.

"He could have told Mother! He could have told us!" Arya exploded.

"No, he couldn't," Sansa said slowly, working through the politics in her mind. "King Robert killed Prince Rhaegar's other children. He killed their mother. Viserys and Daenerys had fled. Jon was the only one left. Father couldn't risk it." For the first time, Sansa appreciated the impossible position her father had been in. Abandon a helpless infant or tarnish his own reputation with a lie. Of course, he claimed Jon as his own.

Arya fell silent. Sansa knew Arya would see the logic of it once she got past the raw emotion. She looked worriedly at Jon who had stayed silent throughout the argument. "Jon?" Sansa asked hesitantly. She supposed she should say Aegon, strictly speaking, but that name would never feel right.

"Someone needs to tell her," Jon said, his voice muffled by fur.

"The queen?" Arya asked, confused. What other "her" could there be?

Sansa's mind raced ahead to the potential consequences of that. "Jon, wait … if you tell her, you become a threat. You have better claim to the throne than she does. Maybe … this should just stay secret." Sansa looked around at the group. Too many for a secret, really, but they were all loyal to Jon.

"Someone needs to tell her," Jon repeated.

"But you don't even want to be king. Do you?" Arya demanded. Jon stayed silent. "He could abdicate," she protested to Sansa.

Sansa shook her head slowly. "No. Even if Jon doesn't want it, he'll provide a rallying point for anyone who disagrees with Queen Daenerys. She can't let him be. He'd have go back to the Wall or into exile. "

"Then she could step aside," Arya insisted. "Jon's got more right to it than she does and he was raised here. The North already supports him."

Sansa laughed shakily. "I don't think a woman who raised two armies and crossed an ocean is simply going to stand aside. Jon, if you don't want the throne, we must keep this a secret. Just pretend it never happened."

"A secret but for the dragons," Bran said cryptically.

Arya realized what he meant first. "Jon, you could ride one of the dragons!"

Sansa inhaled. A second dragon-rider could turn the tide of war. But what was the cost? "Jon, you have to decide."

Jon looked up, his face completely devastated. "She has to know. Someone needs to tell her," he repeated in a broken voice for a final time before walking off into the woods with Ghost.

Arya made as if to go after him, but Sansa stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Let him be alone right now. He'll come back when he needs to."

"Why did he keep talking about the queen?" Arya asked.

It had been bothering Sansa too. Out of all the things to focus on, what the queen needed to know seemed rather low on the list unless … "He's in love with her," she realized, remembering the way Jon had been looking at Daenerys earlier. Lord Baelish was right, damn him.

"He can't be, she's the queen," Arya retorted as if that had ever been a barrier.

"And his aunt," Sam chimed in, unhelpfully.

"He didn't know," Bran said, his eyes looking somewhere else. "They looked beautiful together, didn't they?"

"Oh." Sam blinked owlishly. "That is a problem, isn't it?"

"Poor Jon," Sansa murmured. And how, she wondered, did the queen feel about him?


	9. Interlude in the Council Chamber

**_NOTE: I am doing something which I've never done before, which is to delete and replace the previous version of this chapter. I'm not totally jettisoning the ideas in the previous version, but I clearly didn't accomplish what I wanted with it, so I'm reworking some things. So if you read the earlier version – I'm sorry; please wipe it from your mind. I didn't motivate the characters' actions properly and it felt out of place. This fic has also gotten to the point where I could probably use a beta reader – there's a reason I usually stick to shorter stories and stay within known canon. If you'd like to volunteer, please let me know. Ok, rambling over._**

* * *

At first, Jon simply stumbled through the trees without paying attention to where he was going. By fate or just by habit, he found himself in the section of the woods that he and Robb used to hunt. They'd spent hours stalking the deer with bows and arrows, waiting in the pre-dawn light, setting snares for rabbits. The forest was old here and teemed with life. More than anything, Jon wished he could talk with Robb one more time. He'd wished most of his life to be true-born and not the bastard of Winterfell; what a cruel jest to deliver his prayers so. The towering resentment that had formed the cornerstone of his existence for so long now warred with a strange euphoria at knowing that he was no pretender to the throne, destined to sit with the stablemen for the rest of his life.

Eventually, he knew, he'd have to return to Winterfell and plan a war, but for now the world could muddle on without him. He hadn't asked for any of this but somehow he kept falling up the ladder; first Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, then King in the North, and now ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. His life was a farce. Maybe Sansa was right and he should just pretend that he'd never heard any of it. Would it be so wrong to continue with a lie that he'd apparently been living his entire life? Jon shifted uncomfortably. He hated lying. And it was one thing to endure the muttered and not so muttered insults due to bastardy when it was true. Ignoring them when he knew different would be much harder. Beyond that, would it be shirking his duty to continue to pretend to be merely Ned Stark's bastard? He didn't want to be King, not really, but it felt wrong to lie in order to avoid it. Too close to desertion and dereliction of duty.

The familiar cry of a dragon broke through his thoughts. Jon sprinted to a nearby clearing just in time to see Drogon streaking off southwards. Where ever he was headed could not be good news. Jon spun on his heels and started running back to Winterfell.

The keep was in an uproar. Looking around, Jon finally spotted Sansa's red hair and strode towards her.

Sansa ran to him. "Jon, Bran saw the Ironborn at the Neck – they're destroying the causeway at Moat Cailin."

Jon turned pale. With the causeway down, they'd have nearly no escape route should the Army of the Dead push them that far South. Smashing his fist into his other palm, he said, "I should have known better than to trust Euron Greyjoy to keep the peace. The Dothraki?"

"Still stuck in the Neck. If the causeway goes down …"

"They'll be trapped in the South. Their horses can't make it through the marsh, I know," Jon finished. "Where's Queen Daenerys?"

"She took off on Drogon. She has plans to burn the Greyjoy fleet to ashes," Sansa said.

"And good luck to her, but could she not have waited?" Jon demanded.

"No one knew where you were. Jon, we should talk about earlier …" Sansa began.

"No time for that now. Where are Lord Tyrion and Ser Davos?" Jon dodged Sansa's questions.

"In the council chamber. I was about to send men out to look for you," Sansa told him.

Jon hurried with Sansa to the council chamber where the assembled advisors awaited. They rose to their feet as he entered. "Bran, what can you tell us?" Jon asked.

Bran's eyes turned white. "The Queen flies South, but it will be some hours yet until she reaches the Ironborn."

"Cersei has betrayed her word," Jon asserted looking at Tyrion.

Tyrion looked more dejected than Jon had ever seen him. "Very likely. That was always a risk," Tyrion agreed grimly.

"What is she thinking?" Ser Davos exclaimed. "She knows the danger."

"She seeks to cut off the North as we once built the Wall to barricade the lands beyond. Cersei aims to save herself," Sansa explained.

"Lady Sansa is right. My sister has always been attuned to threats that endanger her personally. If she must amputate the North to save her own lands, she will not hesitate to do so," Tyrion agreed. "I do not know whether she always planned this, but the destruction of the Wall at Eastwatch surely prodded her to action. The army of the dead will not fare well in the Neck without the King's Road to travel on."

"Then we must hope Queen Daenerys succeeds in her quest," Jon said. "Bran, where is the Night King?"

"He marches on Last Hearth and will arrive by dawn," Bran said, still looking elsewhere.

"Did Lord Umber evacuate?" Jon asked.

"The castellan, Ser Tobin, delayed leaving until all the smallfolk had gathered at the castle," Bran continued. "Five thousand people wait to march across the Last River."

"Curse him!" Sansa exclaimed. "I sent ravens three days ago telling Lord Umber to leave."

"Ser Tobin misestimated the speed at which the dead could travel. And he disliked receiving his orders from the Lady of Winterfell and not the King in the North," Bran said.

"His poor judgment has doomed those people. May the Mother grant them mercy," Ser Davos intoned.

The council fell silent. Jon closed his eyes. Five thousand people and all likely to join the army of dead. Unless … a terrible hope struck him. "How fast can a dragon fly?"

"It would take but a few hours to reach Last Hearth from here, but our queen will never make it back from the Neck in time," Ser Jorah said.

Jon went to Bran's side and knelt beside him. "Bran, I need to know if this is possible," Jon said, trusting that Bran would catch his meaning.

Bran smiled serenely. "There are but two Dragons left in the world and they both shall fly."

Jon took a breath, barely daring to express what he was thinking. "Then I shall attempt it."

"Jon, you can't be serious," Sansa broke in, clearly guessing what Jon planned. "You'll die."

"There's no other way to get the Umbers and their people out in time. Ser Tobin may disregard a letter, but he won't defy his king in person. I must attempt it. I promise I'll stop if it looks likely to fail," Jon pleaded with her.

Tyrion narrowed his eyes. "Forgive me for intruding on a family argument, but do you intend to fly to Last Hearth on Rhaegal by yourself?"

"I do," Jon confirmed.

"I realize that the queen is fond of you and that might be clouding your judgment, but do not expect her dragons to share their mother's favor," Tyrion warned. "I urge you to reconsider before yet another Stark is confined to the earth."

Jon shook his head slightly at Sansa's unasked question in her eyes. There would be time for explanations later. "I do not know if Rhaegal will permit me to ride him, but I have to ask. I do not think he'll kill me for that."

Ser Jorah shook his head slowly. "This is folly. Drogon burned the last man who sought to take him from our queen when he was a mere fledgling. Queen Daenerys will not be pleased to find her dragon gone when she returns."

"She'll understand the necessity," Jon said, hoping that was true. "Bran, can you contact Rhaegal?"

Bran's eyes turned white again. "I have invited him to land at the hunting clearing north of the godswood. The rest is up to you. You must reach out to him as you have to Ghost in the past. Do you understand?"

"I do." Jon rose to his feet.

Jorah stepped in front of Jon. "I cannot permit you to do this in the queen's absence."

Jon stood his ground. "People will die. Children will die. And then they will join the Night King's army and increase his ranks."

"There are only two dragons now. If you do manage to take Rhaegal North, you may not return and neither will Rhaegal," Jorah insisted.

"I have no intention of engaging the Night King or his army. I merely seek to rouse the castle to action before it is too late." Jon paused. "If I do see the army approach, I will flee. No matter the cost. I cannot do nothing."

Jorah breathed out slowly and then stepped aside. "You are a fool, but I cannot fault your bravery. I hope we do not have cause to regret this decision."

"So do I," Jon replied simply.


	10. Interlude with Rhaegal

**_IMPORTANT: If the last chapter you read was NOT "Interlude in the Council Chamber" then go back and read that one first. After feedback, I changed some things and this chapter will make no sense if you last read the old version._**

* * *

The puff of smoke from the clearing told Jon that Rhaegal had at least responded to whatever message Bran conveyed. Jon still didn't entirely understand his brother's abilities, but couldn't help but be thankful for them even while he mourned the little boy he had left behind. Motioning the queen's council to stay back (for they had all insisted on accompanying him), Jon took a deep breath and moved into the clearing. Rhaegal was crouched over the smoking remains of two, no three, deer. Much like Jon once, the dragon had found the game plentiful. Rhaegal swiveled his enormous head towards him inspiring a soft gasp from Sansa. Jon tensed. Though he'd seen them often enough at Dragonstone to no longer shamefully hurl himself at the ground, his hindbrain still entered panic mode when one of the dragons deemed to notice him.

Steeling himself, Jon started walking forward in a calm, unhurried manner as if approaching an unbroken stallion (if that stallion could breathe fire and was larger than a house). Rhaegal appeared to ignore him, though one giant eye flicked towards him every now and then. As Jon stepped within the radius of Rhaegal's wing, the dragon swung his nose rapidly towards him, more quickly than it seemed possible for beast that size to move. Jon forced himself to stay still. At this distance, absolutely nothing would save him should the dragon take offense. Much like Drogon had, Rhaegal sniffed at Jon, his nostrils flaring.

"Hello," Jon said as he reached his hand out to pet Rhaegal's nose. Warmer than his own skin, the scales were softer than they seemed and very smooth. Unlike Drogon's black, Rhaegal's scales were a deep iridescent green with flecks of bronze that flickered when Rhaegal moved.

Reaching for the part of him that he'd sometimes felt a connection to Ghost through, Jon attempted to feel Rhaegal. "I have a need to get to Last Hearth," he said quietly. "Otherwise, many men, women, and children will die and strengthen the Night King's forces. Will you take me there?"

For a long moment, Rhaegal did not move and Jon stood frozen, fearing he'd failed. And then Jon felt more than heard a deep rumble. Jon was about to back away and concede defeat when he felt a spark of something pass between him and Rhaegal. For a brief moment, his vision doubled and he could see the full clearing in exquisite detail, but rendered curiously colorless. The smell of the smoking deer intensified and he felt so warm as to almost be in a fever state. The sensations vanished almost before Jon had fully registered them, but something had shifted. Rhaegal now rotated his head so that Jon stood directly in front of one great eye. An oversized eyelid blinked slowly and then Rhaegal deliberately flicked an eye back towards his wings before returning to look at Jon.

Jon breathed out in release. "All right, I suppose that's as much of an invitation I'm likely to get." Walking to the junction between Rhaegal's neck and wing, Jon looked at the dragon's side, trying to figure out how to climb up. Although not as big, Rhaegal had fewer spikes than Drogon which made mounting him quite a bit more difficult.

Rhaegal snorted and stretched his wing flatter by Jon's side. Clearly the dragon thought Jon was taking too long. Stepping onto the wing bone, Jon carefully climbed to the top of the dragon and settled himself at the base of the neck where he'd seen Daenerys ride Drogon. Some sort of harness, Jon thought, would make this a great deal simpler as well as safer.

Barely had Jon leaned forward to grab Rhaegal's neck spikes, then he felt the dragon's muscles bunch beneath him. As Rhaegal leapt forward into the air, Jon heard Tyrion say, "Someone has a great deal of explaining to do." And then the beats of Rhaegal's wings blotted out every other sound and they were spiraling upwards faster than Jon could have believed. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. As Jon became used to the sensation of the shifting muscles beneath him, he dared to look down and watch as Winterfell diminished to toy-like proportions. As a veteran of the Wall he was well-accustomed to the colder air and higher winds at altitude and yet he had never before experienced it under motion as Rhaegal dipped and banked to catch the winds that pulled them ever higher.

Jon reached out his mind to contact Rhaegal. It was easier this time, like stretching a muscle. "Fly north east," Jon said while picturing the King's Road. It would be easiest to fly along that route – less likelihood of getting lost. Rhaegal beat his wings and was soon streaking northward at a speed Jon had never experienced before, even on a horse at full gallop. He was grateful that the dragon generated a substantial amount of excess heat. Even in full furs, the nights were too cold to be comfortable without shelter and fire. With Rhaegal burning like a fire-heated rock beneath him and his fur-lined cloak draped over him, Jon was almost warm. He looped a leather strap about the dragon's spikes and hooked his elbows through to prevent an inadvertent fall. Then he let himself drift into the half-awake state he used on long horse rides. Not as rejuvenating as true sleep, but it would help conserve energy until he needed it. The world, for a time, could wait.


	11. Interlude in the Neck

**_Lots of plot in this chapter. Sorry about that – there's really no way to extrapolate Jon and Daenerys's story into S8 without dealing with the big picture plot at some point. But hey! First Daenerys POV chapter._**

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Daenerys leaned low over Drogon's neck, looking for where the Ironborn had hidden their ships. She'd first flown over the Neck where her khalasar was fighting the traitors, but found the overgrowth prevented her from targeting Euron's men without hitting her own. Would that they were in an open field as during the Battle of Blackwater Rush. There – Daenerys finally spotted the longboats tucked into an inlet off of Fever River. As she joyfully shouted Dracarys, Drogon immolated half the boats before the first arrows started to fly. Wood burns easily though, even when floating on water and the boats were all reduced to ash swiftly enough.

Destroying the longboats wasn't enough. Daenerys longed to take out Cersei's Navy as Euron had taken hers. Directing Drogon out over the Saltspear, Daenerys spotted the cursed black sails disappearing around the rocks. Even with the tide behind them and pull of the open ocean though, the ships were no match for a dragon's speed. Drogon made short work of them and Daenerys grinned in satisfaction. It was not the full Ironborn fleet – Euron must have only sent a raiding party in to destroy the causeway – but it helped ease the indignity of having lost her own fleet.

Back at the Neck, Khal Joro had rounded up a small band of the remaining Ironborn near Moat Cailin. Daenerys fought off a yawn as she signaled Drogon to land. She hadn't slept for a full day and night and it was catching up to her. The Ironborn cringed in a gratifying manner as Drogon swooped in. The sun was just rising and in an act of petty cruelty, her Dothraki had arranged the Ironborn so that they must stare directly into the sun as she landed.

Daenerys nodded in acknowledgement to Khal Joro's bow. "We have won, I assume," she stated.

"Yes, Khaleesi. But this land which shifts beneath our feet and is no land caused great hardship to our horses. One third have broken legs and must be killed," Khal Joro replied, shamefacedly.

Daenerys tightened her lips. So many lost! "Very well. See it done and we will try to find new herds to replenish your stock. What of the prisoners? Do they have any useful information?"

"Many fled back towards the poison water, but the ones we captured only speak the bird tongue and seem little more than slaves," Khal Joro said.

Daenerys looked at the group of Ironborn staring at the ground. They were a sorry lot – barely standing and sporting many wounds and contusions. Daenerys felt sick; sick of the treachery, sick of the loss of her khalasar's mounts, sick of the death and destruction. Tyrion would surely counsel her to offer them mercy if they swore allegiance, but Tyrion was not here. She did not think she could trust any man of Euron's to keep his oath. "Your master has betrayed his word and for that you shall lose your lives. Perhaps your Drowned God will show you more mercy," Daenerys spoke to the prisoners. "Kill them," she told Khal Joro. "Kill them all."

Daenerys stood impassively as the screaming began. The absence of her normal advisors was deeply felt. She had not been so alone since after her flight from Daznak's Pit. Surrounded by Dothraki as she had been then, Daenerys never failed to feel most vulnerable. For all that they formed one prong of her army and she had known them the longest of her allies, she could never forget how she had been treated little better than a valued slave by them. But more than anyone else, she missed Jon. He was a weakness, she knew, but he had become more essential than breathing at some point in the last few months. Drat the man anyway for vanishing soon after they'd arrived in Winterfell. Lady Sansa had been frustratingly vague about his whereabouts and Daenerys was sure she'd been hiding something. The woman had been placidly indifferent to Daenerys's commands. Sansa would require some careful handling; for all that she resembled a wilting flower, at some point she'd built quite a spine.

The screaming mercifully stopped with the death of the last man. Daenerys had intended to fly back to Winterfell (back to Jon) as soon as possible, but realized that she was likely to fall off of Drogon mid-flight if she did not first rest for a time. And he too could use some food and a nap. "Set up the command tent," she ordered Khal Joro. "We will rest here for the day and leave tomorrow at first morning's light. See that your men's wounds are attended to." Daenerys was all too familiar with the Dothraki tendency to ignore injuries until they died of them, but she could not afford to lose more of her army than she already had.

"As you wish, Khaleesi," her commander responded. "There is someone else who wishes to speak with you. The leader of the small men of this land which is no land showed great honor and bravery in aiding us against those who travel on the poison water."

Daenerys fought off another yawn. She could desperately use some sleep first, but it would have to wait. "Very well. Bring food and tea to my tent first and I will receive him there."

A restorative pot of tea helped a great deal in making Daenerys feel more human, if not less tired. She signaled to her guard that she was ready to receive the local lord. The man who entered was small, barely taller than Daenerys herself, she judged. He was an older, spare man, but with a wiry strength that spoke of years of survival in an unforgiving landscape.

"Howland Reed, Your Grace," the man said with a bow.

"Lord Reed," Daenerys acknowledged him and gestured for him to sit on a cushion. The tent was a Dothraki one and thus lacked the chairs and tables standard in Westeros. Despite this, Lord Reed sank to the floor gracefully. "My bloodriders tell me your people fought well against the Ironborn. You have my thanks."

Lord Reed nodded. "Most armies have difficulty in the Neck. My men know the land well and can use that to their advantage. I would ask a boon of you."

Daenerys motioned for him to continue.

"First, I would accompany you upon your return to Winterfell. I must discuss some things with the King in the North," Lord Reed said.

Daenerys repressed the familiar twist of annoyance that she felt every time someone referred to the King in the North. Would no Northerner acknowledge that Jon had ceded that title when he swore allegiance to her? Stubborn, all of them, just like the man himself. But he had yielded eventually and so would they. "Lord Snow," she replied, putting a little extra emphasis on the title, "is my trusted Warden of the North and any kingdom matters may be addressed to me."

"As you say, Your Grace, but this matter is of a personal nature," Lord Reed replied calmly.

What, Daenerys wondered, could the Lord of a backwater region have to discuss with Jon that counted as "personal"? Oh well, Jon would tell her afterwards. "Very well, Lord Reed. I hereby grant permission for you to travel North. I will need most of your men to remain here, however. If Cersei decides to invade after all, the Neck is the first line of defense."

"My daughter Meera will rule in my absence. I would like to acknowledge her as my official heir rather than having my title pass to an offshoot branch of my family. She is an able hunter and fighter and can lead as well as I." Lord Reed twisted his hands nervously.

On this, Daenerys had no hesitation. "I have no objection to that. I will see her installed as the rightful heir to Greywater Watch."

"Thank you, Your Grace. One last thing. My men encountered two riders camping near the causeway this morning and took them prisoner. I am remanding them to your care."

Daenerys watched curiously as Lord Reed spoke briefly with his man outside. Shortly later, two bound men were ushered into her tent – the craggier one was not familiar, but the other … the other was Jaime Lannister. Daenerys looked at the Kingslayer curiously. She had seen him, of course, at the summit, but she had not exchanged any words with man who killed her father. He was a handsome man still, even missing a hand. And despite everything, she knew that Tyrion worshipped him as only a little brother can.

"You're a long way from home, Kingslayer. Without your army. Unless, of course, you were meant to lead the Ironborn, in which case you're too late," Daenerys said coldly.

"I assure you that I have no common cause with Greyjoy's men. I am here for a different purpose," Ser Jaime said proudly. Too proudly considering he was tied up and in the middle of a Dothraki army.

"I do not believe you. Why should I not kill you and send your body back to Cersei?" Daenerys retorted.

"Well," the other man drawled. "Seeing as how Cersei threatened to kill him last she saw him, you might just open new negotiations for peace talks if you did that. But speaking for myself, I'd prefer you didn't kill us just yet."

That earned a glare from Jaime and a raised eyebrow from Daenerys. "And you are?" she asked.

"Ser Bronn. I'd bow, but …" the man shrugged and glanced down at his bonds.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes. "Lord Tyrion told me about you."

"About my ready wit and easy way with women?" Ser Bronn grinned in a manner he probably thought women found charming.

"More about your greed and lack of principles," Daenerys commented.

"I have principles. Principles to make as much money as possible and live long enough to enjoy it." Ser Bronn managed to sound genuinely offended.

Daenerys found Bronn amusing despite herself. Dismissing him, she turned back to Ser Jaime. "If you're not here on Cersei's behalf, then what are you doing?"

"Not finding a nice quiet island like I suggested. That's for damn sure," Ser Bronn interjected.

Daenerys caught Jaime's eyes and they made the mutual decision to ignore him. "Cersei isn't going to help in this war and she has plans to retake the lands she lost to your armies," Jaime stated bluntly.

"The Ironborn attempting to destroy the causeway did make that much clear. That still doesn't explain why you're here," Daenerys said coolly.

"I saw the wight same as everyone else at the summit. Jon Snow is right. The real war is in the North and I intend to help in any way I can," Jaime stated baldly.

Daenerys considered Jaime's words. It would be foolish to trust him, but she could not figure out what game he was playing. Why practically walk into her army alone?

Bronn cleared his throat. "If I may, Your Grace, we brought a token of good faith with us. Search our saddle bags for a long tube and bring it here."

Daenerys looked at him quizzically, but instructed her men to do as requested. Soon enough, her bloodrider returned with a long bundle, wrapped in treated leather. Instructing him to unroll it, she knelt and peered at the parchment that emerged. They appeared to be piles of detailed drawings. Her breath caught as she recognized the machine that had injured Drogon.

"Those are the plans for the scorpion. The only plans," Bronn explained, in case she didn't understand. "Queen Cersei won't be able to build anymore of them for a while."

"Yes, I see," Daenerys said, trying to suppress the rage she felt looking upon the device designed to kill her dragons. "But she still has the ones she built already."

"Wellll, she would have … if someone hadn't broke into the armory and set them on fire that is. That part was my idea," Bronn explained with false modesty.

"I do not understand my sister anymore. I could not stand by and support her while she ignored the threat from the Night King. You need military commanders and I have been one for over twenty years. Let me help," Jaime said quietly.

Daenerys was silent for a long moment. "Very well. You will swear by the life of your unborn child that you will help in this war and not try to leave without permission. Yes, Tyrion told me," Daenerys said when Jaime looked taken aback. "You are confined to your tent while we camp."

"What about me?" Bronn demanded.

"Serve me well and you'll be well rewarded beyond what Cersei ever promised. Betray me, try to escape, and my dragon will roast you alive and your burnt body will be posted as a warning to traitors," Daenerys said, looking Bronn in the eyes.

Bronn swallowed hard. "Never piss off a woman who's friends with dragons, that's what I always say," he said with false cheer.

Once suitable oaths had been given and the two men were sent off to a tent where they'd be closely watched by her Dothraki, Daenerys lay down on the sleeping pallet with relief. The appearance of Jaime Lannister meant that she must ride back to Winterfell alongside her Dothraki instead of flying as she'd intended. More time on the road and she wouldn't see Jon for days. Daenerys sighed. She would marry Jon, she decided. She'd wait until after the war and she'd established her rule in deference to the Southern Lord's delicate sensibilities regarding bastards, but she would not spend the rest of her life wondering what might have been. And in the meantime, she was queen and it was no one's business but her own who spent the night in her bed.


	12. Interlude at Last Hearth

**_Still cranking through plot. Sorry for the delay – plot takes longer to work out and I've had actual work to do. I swear Jon and Daenerys will be reunited soon._**

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Jon sighed in relief as the lights of Last Hearth appeared. Still three hours until dawn, he judged. Enough time to evacuate, he thought. Barely. The appearance of a large dragon was sufficient to rouse half the castle, so by the time Jon swooped down with Rhaegal to the courtyard, armed men were stationed all around, some only half dressed.

"Hold yer bloody fire!" a voice bellowed.

Jon spotted an older bearded man sporting only breeches and a loose shirt. He pointed a broadsword at a group of men all aiming crossbows at Rhaegal. Jon laid his hand on Rhaegal's neck. "Shhh …" he told Rhaegal who seemed inclined to burn the men to ashes if their trigger fingers so much as twitched.

"Do you think the dragon queen is going to land in the courtyard and then fire on us? No! She'd lay waste from the air and there would be a few thousand mounted barbarians attacking the gate right now! Use your bloody brains if you still have any!" The older man continued, striding back and forth and waving his sword around for emphasis.

"That ain't no queen that I've ever seen," one of the men protested while staring at Jon who'd slid off of Rhaegal's back by now.

"Who in the Seven Hells are you?" the old man demanded of Jon, his ire still up.

"I'm Jon Snow and still the man your Lord answers to, last I checked." Jon struggled to get his temper back under control. It had been a long day, an even longer night, and it wasn't over yet.

Jon's words brought the old man blessedly up short. "Gave the dragon queen the old heave-ho, did you? Good for you, good for you. Maybe now us Northerners can get on with things. Ser Tobin here, castellan of Last Hearth."

"Queen Daenerys is still alive and well and I'll thank you to keep a civil tongue regarding her or I'll see it removed," Jon snarled.

"Er, right," Ser Tobin stammered. "Weelll, you're one of us and she isn't, you see?"

"I do not, but we don't have time for that now. I'm still Warden of North and I want to know why you disregarded Lady Sansa's orders to evacuate," Jon demanded.

"She's not King and what's a woman to know of military matters anyway? The Umbers have held this castle for generations and we'll not be running like scared dogs with our tails between our legs," Ser Tobin said belligerently.

Jon clenched his fist and reminded himself that punching Ser Tobin would not be productive. "There are one hundred thousand dead men marching on this castle. They'll be here by dawn. You have what, a thousand fighting men? You'll be overrun in hours and then every man, woman, and child in this castle will join the Night King. Start packing what you can't live without. We need to get everyone across the Last River and we need to do it now," Jon said in a low dangerous voice.

"No army could have gotten here that fast from Eastwatch," Ser Tobin objected.

"The dead don't sleep. They don't eat. And they don't stop to take a piss. Lord Umber swore an oath to me. I want to see him. Now." Jon crossed his arms and waited.

Ser Tobin looked very much like he wanted to object again, but instead told an underling to roust the lordling. Glaring at Jon, he set about instructing the Umber men to wake everyone up. Jon observed the activity grimly. Walking back to Rhaegal, he asked the dragon to take flight and sound the alarm if the dead should approach. Jon wasn't sure how intelligent dragons were, but they seemed a damn sight smarter than Ser Tobin.

Little Ned Umber was soon ushered into Jon's presence. The lad had clearly been awoken from a deep sleep and was still rubbing his eyes. "Your Grace." Lord Umber blinked at Jon.

Jon didn't bother to correct him – he needed the child's acquiescence more than proper titles right now. "Lord Umber," he said formally. "Your house swore an oath to mine. Do you acknowledge my authority to call your banner men to arms?"

"Yes?" Ned Umber said in a querulous voice.

"Your men are hereby ordered to report to Winterfell. Everyone else must evacuate immediately to the south of Last River. The dead are coming and I won't leave anyone behind," Jon said.

Ned darted his eyes over to Ser Tobin who was watching the conversation with a deep scowl. "Ser Tobin said we'd be safe here. That we shouldn't abandon my family's castle."

Jon suppressed a sigh. Ser Tobin had a great deal to answer for. "The army of the dead is going to arrive at Last Hearth at dawn. The Umbers could withstand a siege by a normal army for months, but this isn't a normal army. The dead don't bleed like men do and they don't stop coming. I've fought them before, at Hardhome and barely escaped with my life. And only then because we had ships to sail away on. Your best defense is the Last River and your people are on the wrong side of it."

"Is it not shameful to run away? Without even trying to fight?" the boy asked.

"There's no shame in avoiding a fight that you cannot win. The best chance to win a war is forgo a battle sometimes. You have sisters, don't you?" Jon asked. When the boy nodded, Jon continued, "It's your duty to protect them. And the best way to do that is to leave."

Ned Umber looked over at Ser Tobin again who rubbed his beard. "It's your decision, lad," the older man said.

 _Coward_ , Jon thought.

"All right," the child said finally. "Order everyone to leave."

Jon let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Everything began to move very rapidly at that point. Wagons were filled with goods. Women holding crying babies were hustled out of the gates to form the first group to cross the bridge. Most of the common folk were camping outside the gates, so getting them moving was blessedly quick. They also had a much easier time taking only the essentials, having a better grasp on the perilous nature of life. The assorted minor nobility proved to be a problem, however. At several points, Jon was tempted to bodily hurl the lot into the wagons instead of their cherished possessions. Ser Tobin, for all his faults in judgement, proved surprisingly efficient in making order of the chaos and wasn't afraid to issue liberal threats as needed to get people moving. Jon nervously watched the sky for signs of first light.

Finally, the castle had been cleared and Jon stood in the courtyard with Ser Tobin while Ned Umber made his last goodbyes.

"Buck up, lad," Ser Tobin said while clapping the boy on the shoulder. "We'll be back before you know it." The boy sniffled in response.

"It's time to go," Jon said. He didn't make promises he didn't think he could keep.

As they were walking through the gates, the first rays of light appeared over the horizon and as if on cue Rhaegal screamed a warning from the sky. Like a black wave, the dead crested the hill to the north, exiting the forest, and broke into a run towards the castle and bridge where the last of the Umber's people were still crossing the river.

"Dear fucking gods," Ser Tobin said while Jon started running towards the two nearest horses.

"We need to get across that bridge before I ask Rhaegal to destroy it," Jon yelled. "Mount up!"

Ser Tobin, veteran soldier that he was, snapped back into action and started to half-drag, half-carry his lord, who stared slack-jawed at the approaching army. "Take Ned," Ser Tobin insisted, tossing the protesting boy up to Jon. "You're smaller than I am and your horse will go faster. I'll hold them off."

Jon settled the child in front of him as best he could. "Don't be a fool. No one's holding anyone off. Once we're across the bridge, I'll have Rhaegal burn it to the ground. They can't follow us. Lord Umber will need you."

Ser Tobin looked at Jon doubtfully, but dutifully swung into the saddle. "I hope you're right."

And then they were galloping as fast as they could for the bridge. They quickly caught up to those who had been straggling and though Jon hated it, he knew he couldn't do anything for those on foot. Horses are faster than people, but the terrain surrounding Last Hearth was uneven and the bridge crossing Last River infrequently used, so Jon was forced to rein in his mount multiple times lest it suffer an injury. Twenty minutes of a desperate scramble brought them to the bridge. Last River ran deep and wide at this point and there was a high bluff. Once Rhaegal brought the bridge down, it would be impassable for the wights, at least for a time.

Jon reined his horse to a halt at the head of the bridge. He needed to contact Rhaegal and he wasn't skilled enough to do that and ride a horse at the same time. Sliding off, he told Ned Umber, who looked terrified, to keep riding across the bridge and not to stop. Then he reached out to Rhaegal.

The world shifted and suddenly Jon was looking down at Last Hearth. The wights scrambled over the walls and ground like so many black ants. Rhaegal yearned to fly low and burn them all, but Jon held him back, fearing the fate of Viserion. Instead he directed Rhaegal towards the bridge where some of the wights now streamed to with their human prey fleeing in front. The remaining people were running as fast as they could, but the wights were slowly and surely gaining on them. _Fire,_ Jon thought. Jon directed Rhaegal to burn an arc in the ground, separating the remaining living from most of the dead. Even with the ground covered in snow, the scrub bushes were dry and burned well, forming a barrier.

A high-pitched, terrified scream yanked Jon back to his own body just in time to see a sword block another that was a hair from sweeping through where Jon was standing. Jon stumbled back as Ser Tobin blocked another blow from the wight that had appeared at the head of the bridge. The screaming continued and Jon snapped his head around to observe Ned Umber who stood stock still in the center of bridge. He was not simply screaming, Jon realized – the word resolved into a single, drawn-out "Father!"

Jon took a sharp indrawn breath – the crypts at Last Hearth had been unprotected and while he'd seen most of the bodies burned after the Battle of the Bastards, he'd allowed the Umbers to return with Smalljon's body to rest with his ancestors as a gesture of goodwill. The wight of Smalljon was impressive even in death. Smalljon's head lolled to the side from where his neck had been partially severed, but he still towered over both Jon and Ser Tobin. Ser Tobin fought well, but a normal sword had no effect on the dead and soon he was driven back to where Jon stood. A blow to Ser Tobin's leg felled him to the ground. When the next would have finished him off, Jon stepped in to block Smalljon's sword. As powerful as Smalljon was, even in death, Jon was faster and managed a killing strike with Longclaw within a few rapid exchanges.

"Leave me," Ser Tobin tried to wave Jon off. His leg was bleeding profusely and he clearly would not make it across the remainder of the bridge on foot. Ned Umber at this point had made it over to them and was kneeling beside Tobin. Where the horse had gone, Jon didn't know. Little Lord Umber burst into a fresh set of tears at Ser Tobin's words and tugged at the older man's sleeve trying to get him up.

Jon knew he should pick up Ned and run. It was the smart thing to do. Already, the fire wall that Rhaegal had created was beginning to die down and soon the wights would swarm over them. Rhaegal needed to destroy the bridge before those who'd already crossed were put in danger. And yet, Jon hesitated, his instinct to save as many as he could at war with the rational part of his brain.

With a thunderous flapping of wings, Rhaegal landed next to them, causing the bridge to shake and shudder. Choosing not look a gift dragon in the mouth, Jon pulled Ser Tobin onto his back. He wouldn't be able to carry the man for long – as it was his feet dragged on the ground – but he could get him onto Rhaegal. "Climb!" Jon shouted at Ned. The lad swarmed up the side of the dragon with nary a complaint while Jon laboriously stayed close behind. Ser Tobin clung on grimly. "Fly!" Jon urged Rhaegal once they were settled. The take-off was far from smooth and at one point Jon was sure Ser Tobin would lose his grip, but they all stayed on.

Back in the air, Jon swung Rhaegal around to look down. The wights were breaking through the fire barrier and worse, he spotted a White Walker on the hill behind. With an ache in his heart for those still running for the bridge, Jon directed Rhaegal to burn it to ash. The aged wood burst into flames and soon the pieces fell into the river below. Forcing himself to turn away from those he couldn't save, Jon flew to the south and west where the Umber forces had assembled. He fought down the bile in throat as he caught glimpses of the men who chose to leap into the river and take their chances rather than succumb to the army of the dead. Instead he directed Rhaegal to fly yet higher, away from the White Walker.

Behind him, Ser Tobin cleared his throat. "I owe you an apology. Because I did not believe the threat, I almost doomed the House of Umber for eternity. Your bravery saved us. I may not survive this wound, but I'll follow you for the rest of my days."

"Queen Daenerys …" Jon began.

"I don't care what she calls herself. You're the one who came and you're one the North chose as king," Ser Tobin interrupted. "We'll follow you or none at all. Besides, you must have some Targaryen blood given the way this dragon is listening to you. Sure you don't know who your mother is?"

Jon glanced behind him. Ned Umber was staring at him with the kind of look that Bran and Arya used to have when they were children. Ser Tobin was pale as milk, but fiercely sincere. Jon quickly looked away and didn't answer. Despite the success of the mission, he felt deeply disturbed by the outpouring of loyalty and what it might mean for the future. What, he wondered, was he going to tell Daenerys?


	13. Interlude in the Queen's Quarters

**This chapter was a bitch and a half to write. I'm not sure I really got it to a point where I was happy with it, but oh well. Reviews are always appreciated.**

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The rumors started as soon as Jon left. To have not just the queen, who most of the Lords barely met, but Jon vanish so soon after arriving in Winterfell looked suspicious. Sansa could talk about the war and emergencies until she was blue in the face, but the fact remained that there was no one to lead and two missing dragons. And in the meantime, reports kept flowing in from the North of people missing, villages destroyed, the dead walking. And for every day that passed without Jon returning, a new rumor sprouted. In some of them, Daenerys had killed Jon. In others, the dragons had killed both of them. Sansa herself was rumored to be league with Tyrion and plotting to take the place of Daenerys and Jon. The latest rumor supposed that Jon had never returned to Winterfell at all, but had been replaced by some sort of simulacrum – Sansa was thankful that no one else knew about Arya's bag of faces. Sometimes she wondered if revealing the truth of Jon's parentage would be more or less damaging than the rumors that currently circled the keep.

She crumpled the last message from Jon – instead of flying straight back to Winterfell, he had opted to escort the survivors of Last Hearth and scout out parts of the North. Sansa strongly suspected that he was avoiding the reckoning of his heritage. She thought Jon should be back soon, but exactly when, she couldn't say. Daenerys had returned just this morning, and with Jaime Lannister of all people, sending Winterfell into a new flurry of speculation. Sansa was doing her best, but the people needed Jon back – they needed their king. Sansa knocked sharply on the door to the queen's quarters. She would respond to the summons of this foreign ruler, but she would not concede to her right to rule the North. Not yet.

Tyrion greeted her at the door and beckoned her inside. Queen Daenerys was staring into the fire and visibly agitated. So Tyrion had told her about Jon, Sansa accepted with a sigh. She knew that he must, but how she wished Jon was back to deal with it.

"Lord Tyrion tells me that you know the North as well as anyone," Daenerys stated to Sansa. "Despite Jon's acceptance of my sovereignty, the people of the North persist in referring to him as King. I would like your advice on how to address this."

"I do not know that I am qualified to offer such advice to Your Grace," Sansa demurred.

"No?" Daenerys raised an eyebrow. "You have been ably managing the North for months now during Jon's absence. Because of you people will have food to eat this winter. I think no one is more qualified than to proffer opinions on the state of the North."

Sansa straightened her shoulders. "Then consider this, Your Grace. Every family in the North has suffered over the last several years. Most of the Houses have lost children, women, and men. People have starved when the war prevented food supplies from being transported. People have frozen to death from lack of fuel for fires. The Boltons took what they wanted and left nothing for others. The Ironborn raided the Western shore. The last peace the North knew was when my father still ruled as Warden. The North remembers. We need your dragons and army to survive the coming of the Night King, but we will not risk yet another ruler whom we don't know."

"We?" Daenerys asked softly, dangerously.

Sansa broke eye contact and looked out the window. "A year ago, I watched a girl named Milly beaten in that very courtyard. She'd spilled soup on my husband, Ramsay, at dinner. So he ordered her beaten. Then he had his men rape her. And then, since he was bored, he brought out his dogs to chase her through the forest until she was caught and eaten."

Involuntarily, Daenerys flinched. Tyrion raised his hand as if to comfort Sansa before thinking better of it. "That was a terrible thing," Daenerys offered.

"Yes, it was," Sansa agreed. "And do you know what I did?" She watched Daenerys closely to catch her reaction.

Daenerys waited, silently.

"Nothing. I'd known Milly since she was born. She used to work in the kitchen as a scullery maid and sneak me blackberries because she knew I loved them. And I stood by as my husband tortured and killed her and part of me was glad that it wasn't me." Sansa took a breath and visibly calmed herself.

"What happened to Ramsay?" Tyrion asked before Daenerys could say anything. "Reports were that he survived the Battle of the Bastards."

"He did. I had him tied to a chair and eaten by his own dogs. And then I slaughtered them and burned the bodies," Sansa said while looking intently at Daenerys.

"Good," Daenerys said fiercely, meaning it. Tyrion looked sick.

Sansa nodded in acknowledgement. "I will not do nothing again," she warned. "I have been married twice against my will, imprisoned in all but name, left behind while my brothers went off to fight wars they could not win."

Daenerys faced her squarely. "I am not a tyrant to impose my will upon this country. I have held back. I have restrained my dragons and lost allies for doing so. I am merely asking that the North acknowledge my claim to the Iron Throne as Jon as already done."

Sansa defiantly lifted her chin. "I will follow my brother's wishes once he makes them clear."

"Do you think his wishes were not made clear? Or is it that he is not truly your brother?" Daenerys asked with narrowed eyes.

"He was raised by my father as was I and the blood of the Starks runs in his veins," Sansa countered.

"He is a dragon and my brother's son." Daenerys's lips twisted in pain.

"Why not stand aside in favor of Jon's claim then?" Sansa asked.

"A claim based on the vision of a cripple and a musty old diary," Daenerys said derisively. She spun away rapidly. "I have worked towards this moment for years. I raised armies. I crossed an ocean. I cannot hand that over to someone else, even Jon." Her voice sounded close to breaking.

Sansa sympathized all too well, remembering that moment in the Great Hall when the Lords of the North chose Jon, a bastard for all they knew, over her, a trueborn Stark. "Ladies do not always choose their fate," she said, thinking of what her mother had once told her.

Daenerys turned back, her eyes blazing. "I choose mine."

Tyrion cleared his throat. "Marriage is the traditional way to solve such problems of succession. In lieu of bloodshed anyway, which no one here wants."

"Now you advise marriage?" Daenerys asked incredulously. "After months of cautioning me about the risks?"

"Circumstances have changed. It was always _an_ option. Now it is the only one," Tyrion explained.

Sansa shook her head. "They can't marry; they're too closely related."

"It wouldn't be the first time in any of our family trees that such a union has taken place. If we wish to avoid dividing the country and plunging into yet another civil war, this is the only solution," Tyrion insisted.

"Jon won't see it like that. He won't agree to it," Sansa warned.

"She's right," Daenerys agreed sadly.

"He's in love with you!" Tyrion said exasperatedly.

"Is he still?" Daenerys asked rhetorically. "If we were to agree to keep Jon's parentage secret for a time … just until I can win the support of the Lords on my own merits …"

"You can't expect this remain hidden whilst he flies about on Rhaegal," Tyrion pointed out.

Daenerys tightened her lips in annoyance. "We can try," she insisted. "Jon will agree to it, won't he, Lady Sansa?"

Two pairs of eyes stared at her. "I don't know what he's thinking right now," Sansa said slowly. "I'm sure he doesn't want bloodshed though."

"It's decided then. We'll delay the reveal of who Jon is until we have more time to plan," Daenerys stated.

Sansa wasn't sure how anything could be decided without first speaking with Jon, but clearly the queen wasn't someone to wait.

A cry of a dragon had all of them clustered about the window. "Rhaegal is back," Daenerys breathed. How she could tell at this distance, Sansa had no idea. "I must go."

"My queen, perhaps you should wait," Tyrion interrupted. "We should plan what to say, what to do …"

Daenerys raised her eyebrows. "I do not need to plan what to say to my … Jon," she finished after the barest pause and glance at Sansa. With that she swept out of the room.

"Love makes fools of us all," Tyrion said while shaking his head.

Sansa turned over the odd phrasing of the queen in her head. "They haven't … I mean Jon didn't …" she fumbled for the words.

"Tumble into bed? Shake the sheets? Make the beast with two backs?" Tyrion prompted. Sansa blushed furiously. "Oh yes. They did. Pardon, I speak too crudely. Sansa, you must make Jon see reason. Daenerys and Jon need to marry and quickly."

"I do not know how much influence I will have in this. And Tyrion, really, she's his aunt!" Sansa was having trouble comprehending that point herself, but it must be said. "Doesn't that bother you?"

Tyrion shrugged. "You forget who my siblings are. And Targaryens have been marrying their relatives for centuries now. Jon and Daenerys, blood ties aside, are stronger together. They'll make good rulers and be better for it with the other by their side."

"And if Jon refuses to marry her?" Sansa asked.

Tyrion looked grave. "For all of our sakes, that must not come to pass."


	14. Interlude in the Clearing

**_Some notes since people repeatedly bring it up. On incest – the world of Westeros follows Medieval European standards. Therefore, taboo relationships include siblings, parent-child, and aunt-nephew/uncle-niece. First cousins, however, are NOT considered incestuous (good news for all those Jon/Sansa 'shippers). While Westeros history is obviously rife with incestuous relationships anyway, especially the Targaryens, that doesn't mean that everyone is cool with it happening. And we can assume that the modern Starks, with their strict moral code, would be uncomfortable with the concept, regardless of what happened in their family tree several generations earlier. Basically, you can assume that the immediate fall-out from the reveal of Jon's parentage isn't going to be particularly pleasant or easy. On dragons, I can find no record of any non-Valyrian ever riding a dragon, which in Westeros means Targaryen. So Jon's newfound dragon-riding abilities are bound to make people suspicious even if they don't immediately guess who his parents are. This chapter may not make everyone happy, but fear not - the story isn't over yet._**

* * *

After some consideration, Jon brought Rhaegal down to land in the same hunting clearing they'd taken off from, days before. He'd originally intended to fly straight back to Winterfell after dealing with the invasion of Last Hearth, but had realized that he needed to take the opportunity to survey the North and supervise the evacuation. The situation was bleak. Wights were roaming everywhere, those who'd escaped the invasion risked starvation and death from the cold, and supplies were rapidly running out. Perplexingly, Jon hadn't seen or heard of Viserion since he'd taken down the Wall at Eastwatch and the absence worried him. The Last River appeared to be holding back the tide of the dead for now, but it grew colder every day. Once it froze over or the dead managed to break through the mountain passes to the west, the rest of the North would be in peril.

Jon regretfully slid down Rhaegal's back. For all that his mission had been grim, he'd enjoyed having a clear purpose, uncomplicated by family and conflicting emotions. And he'd enjoyed flying and Rhaegal's company. He understood now, how Daenerys thought her dragons beautiful. There was a depth of feeling, an intelligence that even surpassed Ghost. With each passing day in Rhaegal's company, warging into him had begun to feel less foreign, less awkward.

"I'll miss you," Jon told the dragon while petting his nose. Rhaegal snuffled at him and Jon could feel the dragon's confusion. Jon leaned his forward against the scales, wishing he could avoid what was to come.

Rhaegal swung his head up rapidly, alerting Jon to the presence of another in the clearing. Daenerys strode towards him and Jon knew that his vain hope of secrecy had been dashed. She looked angry and glorious and her presence awoke all the feelings he'd been trying to convince himself that he didn't have for the last few days.

"Daenerys. I'm glad to see you're back safely," Jon began.

"And I you. Despite stealing my dragon to go hunt wights." Daenerys sounded as if she was trying for light-hearted, but landed somewhere on the side of bitter.

Jon shifted uncomfortably, feeling as if he was once again a child and in trouble for stealing the hotcakes. "Daenerys, I needed to get North quickly. This was the only way."

Daenerys closed her eyes and swallowed. "I know. I do know. But Jon, you don't know what you've done."

"We're back safely. I kept Rhaegal from harm. He's still yours," Jon hesistantly reassured Daenerys.

Daenerys shook her head sadly. "Did you think dragons were like horses? Borrow one from the stable and return it? They're not. Dragons accept one rider for both of their lifetimes. Once a dragon has bonded, the only way to break that bond is death."

Jon blanched. "Daenerys, I didn't know that. I never meant …"

"Targaryens have not flown dragons in centuries, but we remember. Viserys passed on the lore to me as he heard it from our mother. You did not know what you should have, but what is done is done. Rhaegal belongs to you now, and all that goes with it." Daenerys stood only a few feet away now, but Jon felt a chasm between them. "Shall I call you Aegon then?"

Jon recoiled from the acknowledgment of his true name. "No! No," he repeated. "That name is but a story. The life that went with it died with my …" Jon paused. Rhaegar may have sired him, but his father would always be Ned Stark. "It died. Let it stay dead."

"But you're not dead. You've chosen a dragon, a better proof of who you are than any vision or piece of paper ever will be. To survive this war, Westeros needs both of its dragons. Together, we can rule. I need you by my side, as my king." Daenerys stepped closer to him and despite the cold bite of the air, Jon felt as warm as if he were inside an inferno. Part of him, the primitive shameful part, wanted to grab her and drive into her until they'd both reached oblivion.

"I can't," Jon said, his voice cracking. "You know we can't."

"We can. We must," Daenerys insisted.

Jon looked away from her. "Daenerys, it's forbidden."

"My family, our family, has never abided by the rules of musty old religious texts." She placed a hand on his arm. "Jon, please look at me. Knowing who you are doesn't change how I feel."

Jon looked back at her reluctantly. "It doesn't matter how we feel. What we want … the gods banned it for a reason. If you bore my child …" Daenerys made a noise as if to interrupt, but Jon spoke over her. "If you bore my child, who's to say whether he would carry the taint? Targaryens have been punished with insanity and cruelty before for their transgressions."

Daenerys withdrew as if struck. "Is that how you view me? Tainted?"

"No! That was … a poor choice of words. But breaking the law of the gods has consequences, Daenerys. I could not bear a child of mine to be cursed like the Mad King." Jon pleaded with Daenerys with his eyes. He needed her to understand why he couldn't be with her.

Daenerys's face might have been stone except for two spots of color that appeared high on her cheeks. "What then? Will you seize the Iron throne? Ask me to bend the knee?"

"Of course not. I couldn't ask that of you." Jon felt his control slipping away from him as if he was teetering on the edge of a very dark abyss.

"You should. If we do not rule together then we do not rule at all. Did you imagine that your heritage would stay hidden while you flew over half the North on my dragon?" Daenerys's eyes blazed.

"No one knows! No one needs to know!" Jon shouted back.

"You did not consider how your proud Northern Lords would react if they knew their own chosen king was their rightful king! They do not support my claim even now. Even after you already renounced your rule and they still think you Ned Stark's bastard!" Daenerys shouted back.

"I keep my word," Jon ground out.

"It doesn't matter! We have rival claims to the throne and while the South may yet support me, the North will surely support you. Will you return to the Night's Watch? Because nothing less will bring the North into my domain," Daenerys demanded.

"I can't do that. You can't ask me to do that." Jon recoiled from the thought. His heart pounded painfully.

What Daenerys meant to say next, Jon couldn't say, because Rhaegal brought down one huge wing between them and actually hissed at her. Overhead, Drogon let out a warning cry. Jon placed his hand on Rhaegal's side and immediately felt a wave of confusion and distress emanating from the dragon. Jon forced himself to breath evenly until he could project something resembling calmness. Rhaegal slowly relaxed and lowered his wing revealing a white-faced Daenerys staring at them.

"I see. I have already lost." Daenerys crossed her arms protectively in front of herself.

Jon wanted to say something to comfort her. He wanted to hold her and forget that the last few days had ever occurred. But instead, he just watched as she walked away. He needed to let her go.


End file.
